


Oil & Marble

by Harker13



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Play, Anal Sex, Another one where Mycroft Paints, Blow Jobs, Brother/Brother Incest, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Cringe, Double Penetration in One Hole, Eventual Smut, Implied/Referenced Incest, Johnlock - Freeform, Licking, M/M, Mycroft saving the day, No Condoms, Nudity, Porn With Plot, Pre-Threesome, Saint Mycroft!, Sorry Not Sorry, Threesome - M/M/M, almost no prep, consensual sex agreement, lots of cringe, mystrade, not a single condom here, porn deal, they're clean for fucks sake!, very few prep
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:28:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27171778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harker13/pseuds/Harker13
Summary: While working with Greg and John, Sherlock accidentally sets on fire the house of an elderly painter. To help him from falling into ruin, they will have a month to recreate a painting the man had been working on for the past 3 years: an ode to depravity.They just have to convince the only Holmes with artistic aptitudes to recreate the work: Mycroft. But he will need models of flesh and blood.
Relationships: Greg Lestrade/John Watson, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 8
Kudos: 35





	1. The Burning

**Author's Note:**

> Edit: The "romance" with a few dick-sucking and dick-sticking comes until Ch. 3 ... because apparently I can't write porn ... there's never enough porn ... you always seem to need MORE details ...
> 
> I guarantee this will not make you anymore literate; quite possibly even your IQ will decrease. Don’t expect Shakespeare, or Lord Byron this is the tale of four men touching, licking, sucking and fucking each other and I LOVED every single second I spent writing it. 
> 
> Imagine my brain translating everything from Spanish to THIS! Was such a wild ride.
> 
> Emotionally it is a foursome but physically a threesome with a voyeuristic participant? … I don’t know, wrote it between work meetings, a text conceived among more than 4000 (ffffffffou thaaausaaaand) words, an orgy of grammatical nonsense.
> 
> Everything is consensual.
> 
> Fucking enjoy it & Happy early Halloween! :)

A beautiful yet macabre dance of fire sparks, ash and smoke, reached the night sky. But it was all right.

Despite the apparent chaos, everything was entirely under control as the fire truck sirens grew louder. A few curious neighbours stationed across the street were broadcasting the morbid show for enjoyment of their few Instagram followers. No casualties, only material collateral damage; for a second, it was a justifiable excuse to admire the beauty within the abstract distress. Reddish and yellowish colours danced along the melody of burning wood.

Behind the police tape, three men, still perplexed at the sudden turn of events, discerned what could’ve gone wrong between sips of hideous cheap now-cold coffee.

“It’s not like he had something invaluable, right?” John couldn’t stop fidgeting while making a monumental effort to sound reasonable, mostly to himself and his slipping impassiveness.

“I don’t know; I don’t know anything about art,” said an equally perplexed Greg Lestrade.

Both of them contemplated the abyss and consequences of letting a candle and two very bored cats unsupervised for fifteen minutes. Well, not unsupervised, supervised by Sherlock, who happened to feel the same as said felines: bored and needful of excitement.

The house didn’t collapse entirely, just half of it. Unfortunately, it was the half which helped Mr Saunders made his living. Rebuilding was going to cost a fortune considering no-one trusted insurance companies anymore. _Damn interest rates and tricky clauses!_

Mr Saunders, a painter in his mid-80's, laid restless in the stretcher; waving his burned hands, yelling and whining incomprehensible statements on Sherlock, Lestrade and John's direction. The paramedics' futile struggles to calm him only made him angrier. Each sob was a statement on how his case was solved but his life ruined.

Greg chuckles were an unequivocal syndrome of how Craig Saunders's cursing against **_the skinny bastard! the skinny bastard!!!_** _¸_ was aimed at a certain detective idly blowing his coffee.

It turned out inside the flat was Mr Saunders last gift to humanity. **A painting.**

But don't be confused, dear reader. Not any painting.

A painting he took three years to complete on a consequence of arthritis ill-effects, solitude and the upmost honest admission about the tragedy supposing his penis not being able to get erect anymore. Craig Saunders definition of life purpose included a passionate desperation to succumb to carnal pleasures while _creating_. A truthful translation of feels and intention with every brushstroke; touch and oil paints mingling for the sake of artistic conception. If the thought of sliding wet bristles against a canvas couldn't redirect his blood flow instantly to his groin, it wasn't a work worth the effort.

But his final masterpiece consisted of nothing more than pure genius …

"Oh please, it was an orgy!" Sherlock's eyes rolled.

"An orgy?! The old man painted orgies!?" laughed an astounded Lestrade.

"Well it makes sense to be devastated if the painting was already sold and took more than a couple years to finish; the money was meant for his only grandson's trust fund. No more family and a kinky way of working not many buyers would accept. I'd say being almost 90, abrasions on both arms, smoke poisoning and bad fortune Craig Saunders will be lucky to even making it alive; he will not have another two years to complete a new one." Sherlock's brow creased as he sipped from the paper cup.

"So, he's pretty much fucked up. Did he have insurance?"

“Do you think all that wailing happens when you have insurance?” John huffed, “The deadline is a month from now.”

“What if…” Sherlock began, “…someone skilled enough recreated the painting? We know the client only specified a few elements, and the rest was left to Saunders creativity. Someone could repaint it.”

John and Greg looked at him in disbelief.

“You know neither of us attended art school, right? I went straight to the army and Greg straight to the force, so the only posh bastard that could have said skills is you, do you know how even to hold a brush? Have you ever painted anything?”

“Oh no, not me. But Lestrade has grown very fond of someone who does.”

Greg blushed. He did know very well someone, but it would require a lot of bribery and expensive wine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember, porn comes until Chapter 3! :)


	2. The Deal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where they try to convince Mycroft and they chat about cheekbones and arses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT - EDIT - EDIT! 
> 
> If you've read my other works ... I SPECIALIZE IN BOTTOM JOHN! ... I strongly recommend that if you desperately need a TOP JOHN - PLEASE ask someone else, PLEASE read someone else ... I can write it but will never describe it as good as you need. I love John to be fucked. I'm so sorry! Please, stop telling me to "I hope it gets better and John fucks Sherlock harder."
> 
> Porn is actually hard to write when you don't want to make it sound ridiculous.
> 
> The "romance" with a few dick-sucking and dick-sticking comes on next chapter.
> 
> Chapters 3, 4 and 5 will be longer.

**Tonight’s special** _: Silverware clinking sounds marinated for two hours over a bed of cold truffle risotto and a vast selection of fine meats, glazed with butter-tick tension floating in the air._

“Mycroft what would you say is my most attractive feature, cheekbones or arse?” asked a nonchalant Sherlock while cutting a small, tiny piece of veal, taking his time to suck in and frame his hollow cheeks while the juiciness spread over his tongue.

Both John and Greg choked at the question.

As for Mycroft, if it only had been any other person, such question would’ve brought him out of his depths, but since it was the well-known insufferable human he was raised with, it was nothing more than a regular oddity.

“Depends entirely on who you ask,” he said, lifting his gaze, cutting an even smaller piece of duck, using the same seductive mannerism. His tongue became a hook, catching and constricting the bite; swallowing audibly, making his Adam’s apple bob.

He smiled.

“I’m asking you” Sherlock’s eyelashes batted.

“Do I have a say in listing anymore element of your physique?”

“No, stick to the options.”

“Cheekbones; your backside reminds me when mummy forced me to change your nappies. You used to piss all over me. I still think it was on purpose.” Mycroft licked his lips.

“Are you two flirting!?” Greg’s appetite decided to leave the table. Unfortunately, a rising hard-on took its place.

“More wine anyone? Water? Coldwater? Mycroft do you have something stronger. Never mind, I’ll find it.” John’s attempt to adjust his pants discreetly failed as he headed to the kitchen.

“No Lestrade, we’re not flirting as you mention so mundanely, we’re **battling**. But if Mycroft here insists in conducting surveys then so be it. Gregory, what would you say is my best feature?”

“I … I …” said while flushing obscenely.

“Arse it is” Sherlock triumphant smirk could light up the room, “John! What would you say you fancy and fantasize the most about me, hollow cheeks while sucking phallic figures or my how my butthole can dilate abnormally?” the **tt** in **butthole** was unnecessarily emphasised.

John’s response came in the way of crashing glass and involuntary whimpering.

“Hmmm, interesting; cheekbones then. Now Mycroft, let’s move to more compelling matters; we require your skills.”

“Oh! Are we finally on the go with _Red Onion_ plan?”

“What? No, not those skills… stop plotting about killing the Prime Minister! I’ve told you, there’s no use, just wait until his wife gets fed up with his bullshit and stabs him, two months tops!”

“Oh, then … Brioche baking?”

“The other one.”

“Chess?”

“No, the fun one.”

“Fun for who? Is it strategizing?”

“God, no! the useful one!”

“Cow milking?”

“MY GOD!... wait, keep that in mind that could be helpful. Painting, painting Mycroft. I recall you had a particularly good eye for colour, texture and … other painting stuff. We need your talent.” Sherlock gagged at the admission, “A poor man whose house we accidentally burned requires our assistance.”

“You burned it.” Greg interrupted.

“Now’s not the time to finger-point! Especially since you should be the one asking for Mycroft’s favour since you two have been sucking each other’s dicks for six months now and I’m the one who has to bear it!”

“How did you know?!” Lestrade’s knee made everything on the table wobble.

“Because I’m a deducing genius, you’ve just admitted it, Mycroft hasn’t argued and …” he sniffed and lowered his voice, “John might’ve told me.”

“It was a secret, you twat. A secret!” John shouted, rapidly approaching the table.

“I’m sorry; we don’t care, he doesn’t care, it’s nobody’s business but Mycroft, the part where we need your help ‘cause Sherlock burned down a 90-year-old man’s house is unfortunately true. We need you to finish a painting, you’ll only have a month, this poor guy took about three years, but now it’s reduced to a pile of ashes. Can you do it?”

Mycroft was already used to people coming to him in search of desperate solutions. Sometimes he liked to imagine himself as a kind of miraculous saint to whom his faithful servants, though few but loyal in the end, frequently came to his door with offerings and tokens of gratitude. His ego throbbed just listening to how the only people who had never succumbed to his "powers" were now metaphorically kneeling in front of him.

"What am I painting?"

"Dicks, lots of dangling, swollen, palpitating, leaking fat cocks." John's mortifying request made him retreat again in search of more alcohol.

Sherlock was beaming.

"No. I don't enjoy altruism and a month is such a short time to complete an acceptable piece."

"Oh, c'mon! Ask for vacations. You must have an overdrawn balance on that account and haven't taken a day off in the past ten years. They owe you; you need it, and we are desperate for a canvas full of pricks. Plus! we will reward you, might even send you a fruit basket."

Mycroft remained silent, considering his options and the possibility of throwing himself into the arms of arrogance and greed, asking for more than they were surely willing to give him to shake off such a tedious request.

Until Sherlock's voice snapped him out of it.

"Don't make me pretty please or I'll use my wildcard."

"Don't you dare."

"Then call Anthea, tell her a family thing arose and you will need to be off-duty, completely unbothered for a whole month while taking care of blah blah insert excuse of your preference blah blah, sincere regards and affection. Do it."

Each and every one of Mycroft's features began to contort, handpicking the best way to take revenge against his own blood.

"Do it, or I'll tell Greg what you've been working on for the past two months."

Scowling gave way to embarrassment. The light warmth creeping up his cheeks gave the man a glimpse of hesitation on how to accept defeat. Not that he was perfect, but he refused to accept that there was no moral of a fable in such humiliation. Indeed, a vacation did not sound bad at all and the prospect of playing with paint as when he was a child and taking advantage of his knowledge in human anatomy (mundane porn, hours and hours of mundane freaky porn), sounded quite good.

Mycroft pressed speed dial 1.

Anthea’s voice echoed under the silence in the room.

“Sir? … Is everything ok?”

Sherlock mouthed, _DO IT_ while mimicking pulling a card from his sleeve. _DO IT!_

After several passcode words and security verifications were given, a baffled Anthea assured him she would do her best to keep everything in order and being instantly promoted to James-Bond level PA. Only after Mycroft assured her over twenty times, he was not being kidnapped, nor it was a trick, the call ended.

Mycroft slowly placed the mobile on the table and laced his fingers. It was done, although he would lend himself to this ridiculous request, he wasn’t going to fall prey to negotiation with terrorists. His demands would be heard.

“I have one condition. I’ll need models.”

“How boring, can’t you use your perverted imagination?”

“No, I work better when I can see exactly how my art comes to life. So, I will need models, but more importantly, I **want** models, **three** to be precise.”

Oh yes, it felt good being back again in charge.

"Being your little doctor one, Greg two and–" Mycroft's hand groped Sherlock without warning, long fingers closing on tight flesh and fabric one by one, delighting on the sound of surprise coming out his sibling "–of course, you. What was your initial question? Oh yeah, cheekbones or arse … unlike you, I delight myself on thinking about Dr Watson delight expression as you shut the fuck up and please him or Greg's muscles contracting, dutifully filling your beautiful lean, taut entrance while licking your back … do we have a deal?" he released the hold on Sherlock's groin.

"Great" Sherlock cleared his throat, "We have a deal. We'll be your models."

"Whoa! Hang on; I never gave my consent to participate in an orgy. That goes beyond …" Greg's tone of voice began to rise.

"Greg seriously… don't make me beg, you and John had this wonderful idea of saving an old man's arse and Mycroft's right, I'm just thriving for the thrill of having your gigantic cock inside me.”

"Gigantic? How would you…?"

"Greg … please, shut …" Mycroft urged.

"Oh! Mycroft's been sculpting a replica of your cock for the past two months, he can't get it right because he can't do it by memory, that's one of the few disadvantages of so many years sticking to facts and harsh reality, you forget to let your imagination fly away … that's why he needs models, he doesn't have the muscle memory for … the touch; he even had clay poisoning from trying to deepthroat it while still fresh and failing miserably … which could only be entirely possible if he already had said ginormous dick in his mouth prior to it, so stop being hypocritical and prude."

Now Sherlock had an open-mouthed Mycroft at his mercy, "Oh! I think I wasn't supposed to say that … woopsy."

John came from the back emptying a wine bottle down his glass, blushing fiercely.

"If anyone gives a shit on what I think and how I feel, I just wanna say that as long as no-one tickles me, I'm in."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be a "threesome" while Mycroft watches. I tried a Bottomlock, yes ... they'll fuck Sherlock, don't worry. I need to add more details because I already can see the comments "Omg! more prep!!! OMG WHY DIDN'T HE FINGER HIM MORE???!!!, YOU SICK FUCK!" ... Yes... I know ... 
> 
> Chapter 4: Will be Top Sherlock/Greg - Bottom John (YES I LOVE IT I LOVE IT)
> 
> Chapter 5: Mystrade Top Mycroft/Bottom Greg ... or I don't know, I'm still figuring out.
> 
> Cheers!


	3. The Cherub

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Mycroft needs very specific anatomical references from naked men.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well! ... there's that :D  
> Do I love writing Mycroft? Yes, I fucking do <3

Man cannot survive by feeding solely on work and duty. 

Sherlock was aware his older brother had an extensive list of recreational activities that, although filled him with endless hours of discreet and socially correct happiness, turned out they had nothing to do with international espionage or strangling people. 

After waiting for Mycroft to brew the most pretentious coffee in the UK ( _are you seriously going to roast the beans NOW?)_ it took them twenty-five steps to get to what everyone thought was nothing more than an abandoned attic. 

Two bay windows, framed by terracotta walls, reflecting the sun-fall as specks of dust woke up to welcome them into the enclosure; on the walls, several racks filled with blank canvases as if asleep under the effects of paint thinner. The wooden floor creaked as they explored every corner of a part of Mycroft that until that moment, all were oblivious of (kind of). 

Sherlock couldn't stand the urge to stop being rightfully surprised and start behaving like the insufferable fuck he knew he was. 

"Have you ever been told you have the taste of an old woman?" 

"You, in fact. Before the third time in rehab, you asked me to read you ... I'd just wiped vomit from your hair." 

"Because you picked Brontë!" 

"It was your book."

"I thought it was about someone FALLING FROM wuthering heights!" 

Lestrade, who had always been convinced of his inability to handle infants, felt a duty, at least for a second, to become the responsible adult. 

"Hey! Quit it, are you afraid of spontaneous combustion if you stop being a jerk for five minutes?" 

Mycroft could defend himself, but the fictional butterflies in his stomach differed about the correct way he supposed should react to the inspector's voice. 

"It's fine. This space was meant to serve only for my entertainment, but now this _once in a lifetime_ chance arose, it would be unwise not to exploit the benefits." 

"Fine!" sulked Sherlock, "I would've gone for sex-dungeon, but the alternative is quite picturesque."

They hadn't even started, and Mycroft was already exhausted. Could he still change his mind and refuse? 

His considerations were interrupted at the sight of the perfect curve Greg's glutes formed as he undressed, immutable to everyone's piercing looks.

"What? Your rambling 'ts taking too long. Shall we use that leather-sofa like _Titanic_?"

"No, you can throw yourselves on the floor; If we're going to get _Renaissance_ , better get used to having sore knees."

With what little grace and dignity he had left after his pants decided it was time to quit formalities, Mycroft rummaged among art-supplies. A leather-covered sketchbook, several charcoal pencils and a Meisterstück Mont-Blanc served him as a shield. A thin layer of sweat hurdled his increasingly tensing body, while he rolled up his sleeves.

"Come, come…" dictate while lowering himself to said sex-leather- _Titanic_ -referenced-sofa.

He could swear to hear winged deities chanting as the object of his midnight poetry approached.

On the surface, Greg seemed like a man cast far away on the blind-spot of life, blessed with a huge warm heart and soul but with an even more huge and warm penis. The naked epitome of beauty, an Adonis for which Caravaggio and Rubens would've died on a knives duel for him to pose. How could someone in his late 40's manage to look so good? There was no use in questioning the universe wise desires as the silver-haired perfectly toned legs marched in his direction; muscles clenching under everyone's now evident scrutiny.

Mycroft tried his best to hide the fact that Lestrade's cock had been in his mouth (and arse, sofa, bed, kitchen counter, bath, against the shower wall, stairs, laundry room and the pantry) two days prior, poor housekeeper, the things she had to clean for a few couple thousand pounds a week; discretion and cleaning abilities paid well among posh bastards.

Greg, content without taking delight in fame and fortune beyond knowing himself desired by who, in his opinion, was the most demanding audience, remained silent.

Yes, life had been extremely generous with him asking only as payment, a youth dedicated to sports where the use of extremely tiny shorts was practically mandatory. _Thank God in Heaven and the Queen for rugby and soccer!_

Once again, the older Holmes felt a rising sense of duty burning through his chest, the same duty that kept the damned country on its feet. He wasn't going to abandon his mission unless his hand fell off, perhaps from spending hours painting… perhaps to help keep such specimen's prick from getting cold. Did the room become suddenly hotter? It probably did. _Focus!_

"Yes, now … something absolutely out of the table?"

"No food."

"Meaning you don't want to be fed…?"

"Meaning I won't lick dripping ice-cream from inside anyone's…"

"But you're ok with cum?"

"Yes, I'm ok with that…"

"But not ice-cream or any other specifically conventional food intended for human consumption typically in a non-sexual context? … that's ridicule…"

"It's cold and tacky!"

"Hmmm … pity."

"Are you gonna write it down?"

"Don't you worry, disappointment will remind me … now, please stroke yourself."

"I'm sorry?", Greg didn't expect that plot-twist between their little battle of wills.

"I need references; anatomical references…", was an utterly reliable excuse.

John's relieved sigh interrupted their childish discussion.

"So we're then just pretending to fuck while you take notes? That's actually …"

"Oh no, Dr Watson all of you are going to fuck relentlessly until your cavities are sore and chaffed… "

John still couldn't explain how the Holmes managed to pull off that thrilling trick of lowering their voice register at will to assert dominance. He hoped no one would decide to piss on him eventually (or maybe he did hope so?).

"Allow me…" Sherlock spun him forcing the John to look directly, "John, we will suck each other until the joint of our lips feels like falling apart, with such an amount of lubricant, semen and other fluids inside that the difference between utter bliss and the confusing agony of the possibility our rectums were ripped causing an imminent death by bleeding and, will look very, very blurry."

John flushed, unable to blink or say anything more understandabe than a soft whimper equivalent to a - _fine by me_.

"Indeed, now…" Mycroft returned his undivided attention to Greg, "Where were we? Ah yes, stroke yourself, please?"

A tiny smirk rolled up Greg's lips.

"My hands are cold."

_Do it yourself; God knows you've done it before._

"Is it so?"

"I'm afraid, yes."

"Oh my…"

Mycroft sipped the most pretentious coffee in the world, careful to fill his mouth more than necessary and swirl the still hot enough liquid around every corner of his mouth. He swallowed some, saving the rest to moist Greg's chilly cock.

His tongue embraced the hardening limb as it slowly advanced down his throat.

"Will that suffice?", said after popping out, "Now stroke yourself."

Greg shuddered and obliged, shoulders falling back.

John and Sherlock were fascinated by how each of the vertebrae of his back was accommodated in perfect synchronization with the hand tightening as he began to massage. Up, and down ...

"Slower; your grip's a bit tight. There … hold it."

Mycroft began sketching; emphasizing a very purplish vein now pulsing next to Greg's thumb, "Testicles now, if you'd be so kind."

"You could just call them balls you know? It's not like you're foreign to …"

With a swift motion, he put the pen down, groped Greg's hips and promptly put both – _… b… bollocks…_ –he couldn't manage to call them "balls", so pedestrian. Anyway, he mouthed the little sack, sucking and coiling; so soft, rapidly tightening.

Greg almost loses balance as his legs gave in with each of Mycroft's licks. Just as he was ready to fall on his knees admitting defeat, the cold air hit him. Between gasps, he saw Mycroft cleaning the corner of his mouth, smiling. _The bastard._

"You're right I have enough references, and just enough patience for one brat today. Think that would be all, inspector. John?"

That's what the game would be about; with a small grin, Greg wished John all the luck in the world in his quest for self-control and turned around.

\- - -

"Umm yes, no tickling."

"What a shame, you have a lovely smile."

John was much thicker than Greg.

_Short?_

Immediately having realized his mistake; Mycroft furiously crossed out the word and wrote a side note: _NEVER use that word, NEVER!_ The memory of a nearly broken arm from underestimating John Watson's complexion sometimes still haunted him.

Okay, it was indeed shorter than Greg's but **much thicker** (so, so, so much!). Perfect circumference to hurt if there was no time or desire for proper preparation. If it's true that fortune favours the bold and said ex-military cock decided it wanted to invade enemy territory by introducing "peacefully" into the anatomy of another man; it couldn't be done using just one or two fingers. John Watson was something in need of a special task force operation plan. 

Now that he thought about it, it perfectly explained Sherlock's new devotion to only accept cases on working days and, if absolutely necessary, on weekends with nothing less than something involving rotten corpses. _If maggots are not devouring tissue, it can wait in pathology until Monday!_

"Sherlock is it bigger?" asked Mycroft. 

"Bigger than what?"

"Bigger than the _unrecognized_ purchase with my credit card on an online sex shop two months ago." 

_Fuck!_

"Justifying your mischief arguing that it was for an experiment. Did your experiment include sticking a monstrous dildo up your arse? Because if that's the case, I need to know. A reference like that will be convenient at the moment, so … Sherlock Holmes, is it bigger than John's member?" 

Why was Mycroft so polite when being the most obnoxious? Sherlock wondered as his gaze flicked between John and his brother. 

"How…?!" John began. 

"Irrefutable statement, fantastic. Now John, same as Greg; slow firm strokes, I need to see how the veins stick to the membrane… oh, lovely! lovely colour and already leaking a bit, may I?" 

But before John could protest, Mycroft licked the small salty drop at John's glans. 

"Glad to see you're still a vegetarian. Now please hold it." 

"Ah, fuck…" 

John held, squeezed and stroked. 

Mycroft sketched, scribbled and smiled. 

\- - -

The pen suddenly stopped its hurried walk. 

"Now, **MY ground rules …** If I say _don't move_ , you cease all movement at that precise second and resume until I say so. This is a craft that demands precision; this requires patience, dedication, respect of the process, are we clear?" 

"Wait, what about Sherlock?", asked John.

"What about him?"

"You didn't ask him."

"He knows I'm ok with everything.", Sherlock huffed, proud.

"Of course you are." Mycroft blushed a bit, "But it's your turn; let me see."

"Nope, use your imagination; I'm not your submissive altar boy. Besides, you've done it before … would feel rather disappointed if I didn't leave a sufficiently lasting impression. Should we start checking that big fat brain of yours for degenerative signs?"

And that was it.

Mycroft stood.

His long fingers reached up Sherlock's neck, sliding up along the crests in his skull, digging thumbs on his soft temple. Holding fiercely and massaging at the same time. A silent battle of shallow breaths and narrow stares.

Sherlock was fighting an internal battle to stop arching and surrender to the touch of the long fingers that held him; a small inconvenience that did not allow him to realize what to do with his arms that hung heavily at his sides. A familiar feeling of warmth and admission of defeat began to bend his will. Fucking Mycroft, damn him and his seven more years of life experience and his stupid way of knowing how and where to touch him.

Mycroft's thumb moved from Sherlock's temple to each cheekbone, caressing, until it reached his lip; teasing the soft skin making his mouth open involuntarily letting escape a soft whimper he probably didn't know was holding. Then, unexpectedly, Sherlock licked it.

"My good boy.", he said, amused.

Their lips met in a soft kiss.

"Aren't you going to ask me to stroke and hold myself?", whispered the younger Holmes.

"No, I do remember you, my sweet cherub." a sudden feeling of nostalgia filling him, "We'll start with you."

From across the room, John and Greg watch stunned and still naked, almost coming untouched. Amazed at how Sherlock became soft and pliant.

His knees hit the ground, and it was like watching specks of dust surrender to the wind and gravity. Sherlock didn't stop his eyelids from dropping.

At Mycroft's quiet command, several hands reached out, stripping him of the many layers of clothing he was still wearing.

Few times did Sherlock feel the need not to fight what was happening around him; he blindly trusted the hands that ran through while the cold touched his skin. He recognized the familiar and timeless smell of Lestrade's low tar cigarettes, cheap coffee notes and his unique, clean manliness; his touch, on the other hand, was something entirely new. The rough hands that caressed his legs slowly removing his pants and trousers, lasciviously approaching his crotch and then slowly backing down.

John's hands were completely different. Despite the adversity, they were still soft and gentle when coming into contact with his friend's pale skin; instinctively he caressed more carefully all the little corners where the blood made a more noticeable stop and made the skin jump in a sign of life.

Sherlock was so starving to please them. No time or desire to fight.

He listened as the sofa creaked and the elegant pen that had been in charge of recording all its intimate details gave way to a soothing sound of charcoal on paper. The thrill of knowing that his frenzy was being captured by someone who already knew him in a worse than a shameful state, turned out to be a trigger interesting his cock.

Naked, he felt John carefully lift him on his chest so he could have better access to the nape of his long neck, nuzzling and inhaling.

John's mouth began to water from the enticing scent but mostly from the dramatic beauty of a work of art of flesh and blood—a sinful dammed soul. The sound of Sherlock's shallow breaths did not match the fierce lust within John. A strange and irrational ferocity took hold of him, making him bite Sherlock's shoulder shamelessly, delighted when he finally emitted a gasp that turned his guts.

Sherlock involuntarily spread his legs, an invitation that Greg immediately accepted by throwing himself at it. Although he was not a heretic, having him at his mercy for the first time in his life awoke a carnal hunger that owned him on the verge of feeling his fingers were turning into claws, digging without consideration into the white skin. The symphony of moans and spasms it provoked was enough to intoxicate any hint of doubt that remained in his mind.

Greg and John, eager not to allow the slim figure in their arms to take back control, subdued him with more force. John's hands, which until now had caressed the slightly marked abdomen, began to move, tracing the silhouette of his arms until they were linked behind his neck. His torso spread like an offering to the deities.

"Stop", ordered Mycroft.

Sherlock's eyes blazed open, panting with his swollen cock throbbing. His head still rested on John's wounded shoulder.

"Stop squirming."

"Why not?" Sherlock defied, "Don't you …"

His words were muffled by the expertise of someone who enjoys the lack of shame, in one long move, Greg sucked Sherlock. The delicate and thin member quickly found its way down his throat to the bottom, leaving a salty trail on Greg's tongue. It wasn't that long; it left enough room to stick his tongue out each time his lips returned to the base of the penis. His saliva slowly began to trickle into the crevice between Sherlock's legs, a slow promise of what would come if he managed not to come in the next ten seconds.

"Stop." Mycroft's voice interrupted again.

He stood and with all the calm in the world approached Lestrade; taking him from behind and rearranging so that his entrance was exposed. When he finally found a position that satisfied him, Mycroft paused for a second to stroke the also swollen prick of his now-not-so-secret lover, "Now, don't move."

Even calmer than before, he returned to his spot and retook the pencil. It took him a little longer than it should have to settle down and resume activities. The notebook now trying to hide his excitement. John noted with amuse how Mycroft was finding increasingly more challenging to maintain the composure and stoicism he was always supposed to present.

Sherlock would have felt wandering lost in the dark had it not been for John's arms holding him.

"You all right?" came John's whisper.

He nodded.

John returned his hands to trace the little but perfect musculature in the detective's figure, taking the time to go through each harmonious line which suggested a bold, supple strength. The reward for spending many years running along with the only person capable of turning each day into a mad dance of fear and excitement. In every wound, scar, or mark, Sherlock's body was a testament to the wonder of sharing his witticisms. With his cock brushing Sherlock's tailbone, John realized he was holding him much tighter than necessary.

Sherlock didn't seem to care. Was he really so confident in John that even to hurt him, she seemed to enjoy it?

"Yes, John, please do it" Mycroft's tired voice echoed.

Yes, the Holmes definitely were mind-readers.

He kissed Sherlock.

A deep, forceful lips crash. The unmistakable taste of blood from a well too passionate bite.

Lestrade's face was steel focused on the two men above him when a small transparent bottle landed just next to his hand. He popped the lid and spread a fair amount in his hand, began teasing Sherlock.

A loud groan interrupted the kiss.

John was sure there must have been a way to save that sound to use as a ringtone later. As Greg continued his ministrations interspersing sizes, textures and lengths of each digit preparing Sherlock, John lowered him to the floor enclosing his face between his hands, forcing him to focus only on his mouth. With each moan, with the relentless effort, his voice quickly became a squeak. 

Greg took advantage of the moment of intimacy between them and indulged himself a little. He turned to Mycroft just as he squeezed a little more lube into his hands to continue opening Sherlock's channel. A wide smile crept on his face as he realized Mycroft's ambidextrous skills were put in good use while he kept scribbling and dutifully touched himself. 

_Pervert_ , mouthed Greg, still smiling. 

_Romantic_ huffed Mycroft. 

That was the cue to dig his fingers deeper. Sherlock was loose and ready. 

As a last gesture of cordiality, he reached for the clear bottle again and gave himself a few strokes before slowly, very slowly thrusting inside. Every muscle in his legs and abdomen contracted at the same time; the delight of a fantasy coming true that turned out better than expected. The reality far surpassed fiction. 

He began to move, never coming out completely to re-enter more forcefully. 

John could see ecstasy and bewilderment mingling across the man's features between his hands. 

Sherlock's mouth was torn between trying to kiss John properly or get enough air to breathe. 

John decided to relieve him of his indecision while handling the kissing and reaching for his neglected cock. It had gained an obscene crimson colour. John's new focus was making Sherlock endure long enough for Greg and Mycroft to carry on. 

He knew they were supposed to "work" and Mycroft had given them precise instructions but… 

As Sherlock's breathing became hastier, he couldn't help but turn to see Lestrade dead in the eye. 

"Out, get out!" 

"No chance, mate." 

"Then move aside." 

They picked Sherlock up as best they could; he was practically a puddle of moans and groans begging for permission to come.

There was something delicious in the expectation and to see how they fought for who was going to be the lucky winner, the chosen one who would fill him. Was someone gently carrying him as a princess? 

No, the reality was they almost stumbled him over Mycroft.

They threw Sherlock not so gently as a frankly stunned Mycroft, gripped the charcoal so tightly that it seemed about to break it. He watched his younger brother grotesquely writhe against the surface of the expensive sofa, as both Lestrade and John charged against him.

Sherlock gripped the backrest firmly, panting without taking his gaze away from Mycroft. Oh, the way his mouth formed a perfect oval, and his eyes began to close away from reality, plunging into bliss. There wasn't enough time, words and materials in the world to capture something like that, something so ethereal and a tiny bit sexy. This is what Goya must have felt throughout his dark period.

While Sherlock kept struggling to get a little friction, whatever it was, whatever life wanted to give him; John interrupted his ministrations as he held and squeezed it.

"Not yet."

John, who had spent the best part of his life behind Sherlock (sometimes literally) only in his dreams and cold nights, would have managed to conceive what until that moment seemed like a dream; the sound of each whimper escaping from the second most stoic man in the world. Officially, his self-control had threw-itself out the window.

One on each side of Sherlock, in perfect sync, Greg and John lined up to.

John's fierce countenance, unable to contain his frenzy, made Greg decide to take the reins and align their cocks so that little by little, they were introduced into the cavity in front of them. And what a delicious feeling it was; so much better than anything they could've imagined. At first, it was just the tip, painfully slow.

Sherlock arched his back at the intrusion and held on tighter.

They both moved in a little further, feeling the muscles around them expand in different ways.

John was still holding Sherlock, who kept trying to move his hips enough to create friction with John's hand.

"Not yet."

They got in a little; further, half of them were already inside.

Greg made the terrible mistake of turning to see Mycroft.

What someone would typically expect from an older brother is that he would dedicate himself in life and soul to protecting his siblings, especially someone like Sherlock; fortunately, Mycroft boasted of being a terrible older brother in Sherlock's own words. Greg had no trouble reading between the lines the nod he received.

Trying not to fall on Sherlock and still feeling John throbbing at his side, he began to come.

Not even after paying for a premium porn subscription John saw and felt anything like that. Lestrade's warm fill worked the perfect lubricant for John to brutally begin thrusting as Sherlock arched harder to get John closer. 

Greg finally slipped out and watched with tremendous pleasure as John leaned back to fuck fiercely as he stroked Sherlock's cock.

A final nervous chuckle escaped Sherlock as he came all over John's hand. The warm, and quite literal, feeling of claim filling him. His body giving up on the pure bliss released with each spur. 

John, still completely inside Sherlock, was about to shake his hand when a panting, agitated Greg grabbed his wrist, licking the sticky fluid tasting as much as he could. 

The debauchery display made John lunge at Greg. 

He would never be sure what did the trick. If it was the sudden discovery of how good a kisser Lestrade was, the taste of Sherlock still present in his mouth, how the channel of muscles around his penis contracted or Mycroft's gasp of surprise. Whichever it was, John came with a force never felt before. 

A sudden thought stroked him. 

_Thank you, Craig Saunders, thank you and your love for orgies!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next one is an unapologetic Bottom John :) which I know most of you hate.
> 
> So if you're not into that kind of stuff, here's your exit or wait until chapter 5 (theMystradeyeeeiii).
> 
> Cheers! :D


End file.
